Carlo Parcelli

Here begins Part II of

Canus Ictus in Exilium :
[Dog Bite in Exile]
Monologue for an Imaginary Actor
Translated from the Sermo Vulgaris
by Harald Comus Earwicker
 & Carlo Parcelli


Left: 'Sorrow' woodblock print / Tim Wengertsman

For the introduction and Part I of Canus Ictus see FlashPoint 17:  The Dream or
What Drunkenness Imparts Be Not All Fancy Or the Exiles Awakens from a Nightmare

What this be a sea a wine
       What I be lashed a lines flush wif grapes
What bunch be a bubbles 
             What be but bursting heads a men
                 Their bloody bulbs  what impart the dark
       As I nailed against a torrent wall
Ship’s hull, brick bound and seamed
            What cracklin’ sound clash ‘bout me ear
Like the song a cacklin’ sirens
            Whetted amidst Jove’s reports.
What pounded ferment scourge me firmament
        And pound me fundament a figment 
             A me mind’s base breech
Was what be fucked a merry condiment
            Wif a jar we jolly jam on our bread.
For be it folly I be inwit a half full sack a port
                  Spyin’ through the birf canal at
       The howlin’ cantilever a me heart
But struck me pose that be not twat
       A me dear Loquatia for I sense a far off breeze
What squeeze the brass fittings a me nose
         And close as would a noose.
               And me mouf be a salt 
As I be a fortnight a Edie’s poon
        And beyond the wall be desert 
              And somethin’ Parthian what come soon
What through the long end a the glass portend a tomb.
             Spilled winesacks and slain sheep about the ground
        What for blood and concourse arise Tiresias 
             Wif Odysseus and Achilles what be two hounds. 
Sniffing rude Philoctetes ere his wound doth stank,
        “Me smell be a carrion as thy do well ta note,
For it be a timber rot ere Charon’s boat 
         What port thee ta this very isle
               What be less a earth and more a Hell.”
         And hound dog Achilles speak
               But all be howls as be his heel
         As Philotectes punished by a poison arrow.
So Odysseus “See here and hear me as dogs don’t lie.
               So this me first truf as a dog be I.
And certain I No Man in this pelt.
         And most wise no man may comprehend me whelp.
So who you be dog when we be thus.
                We may but bark but thee not speak for us.
So dogs be dogs and men be men.
         And don’t dream me ta tell ya again.”
                And I shudder and loose me bowels
          As his teef grow sharper and keen wif his howls.
And relief he vanish behind the heroines a the Palatine, 
         Tyra what fucked Poseidon at the water’s edge.
And Antiope what queued up ta be at Zeus’s prick .
              And Epikaste who fucked her baby boy
                         Ere she knew her blood. 
        And Cloris what be Neleus’ trophy wife
And Leda and Iphimedeia  and Ariadne
        What me head be nog, and nog grog,
               But du’n custom parse heroine from whore
        What tug and tittle an emperor’s golden sack.
And nip me flesh doth these heroine harlots do
        And probed me parts and precipice
And tippy toe up me thigh and breast
               And pry at the mounds a me arse
And pluck the lobe a me ear.
       And pleasure me anon til I awake
Wif a start what be debauched 
              By a thousand crabs at me nads,
       What Okypodinus name ‘ghost,’
And what myf proper call maenads 
              What Orpheus disembowel,
Now nip a me nether parts
           And be vice upon me toes, 
       And be at the jelly a me eyes
          If one not ta shear the tip a me prick
What like a Semite I be circumcise,
                    As at where all I cry,
“What Morpheus take such base shapes
              Upon these rocks 
        What would in sweet dream off mine.  
Certain our gods not be as comely as a crab
       Barter be better than whelm and stab.”
But I be not Caesar or other desserts.
        And me exile sure not be ta Cilicia
Where he be a bit player ta crush Spartacus
        And the siege a Mytilene
But our Crassus make me ragged bait 
                  On some cosmos’ sandy shore.

So’s me drop tunic and make straight for the sea
       Shakin’ the bloody bitin’ nippers offa  me. 
And then back crush a bushel wif a rock
       And wif me flint catch a fire
And so me tormentors in their own juices cook. 
            And respite take a the second sack a wine
What Hilarus saw fit ta leave behind.
      What it be his mercy or me wit.
And gaze out at what null point be Rome
         What me I ken if Crassus build a bridge ta me here
I burn it down ravver than clamor home.
      What be home if hearth be kept a desert dung
             Or drowned wif a plummet a Jovean piss.
And what wif the women a munifex mingle jizz 
         As about the cook fire they mingle gods
When brood and days be far flung
         A this bloody damned ruin Romulun kingdom. 

Rome think its vassals be a Remus kingdom come.
       Dead by bloods hand such that others gods and vices
What be not wholly undone, and offer as gift
         The insult a citizen. What digest a Rome be Sabines.
Its sons set upon the world wif flagrum at their backs
       More than this toad Hilarus alack.
What be a slave or freeman but a cold indulgence.
          Whim a the maintenance a wealf and kingdom.
What shut me up for the right ta wed
       Or build a tannery or set up shop.
This not be worvy a Jove anymore a Ictus.

And Hilaris Fuscus. He be a Germania, be he not.
       So he be as much a Roman as I be a quarantine. 
And slave and traitor what be more his stylin’
           For me ingenii et verum prove out me exile.
So what be they what in chains deny their ancestors
           For franchise. Be they slaves to futility
And the Roman yoke. Or Spartacus 
           What throw off such yoke
Ta be slave ta futility a arms. 
           Bondage be death at its moment
What seek life on this side or that.

Where be that skull? And I be need a stout stick.
           Ah, here be the toothless bugger.
What be I call ye? Be I call ye Oraculum.
           A seer ya say a bloody Brittannia
How ye be this way? I mean
     Tides and leagues wise.  Not 
What motte bear your bones
           For that be but result a such a breach.
What? You be ward a Tuathal. Ya don’t say.
             What our dear Tacitus
     Claim be a exiled Prince a Ire riven from his home
What that Agricola use his throne as pretext
          A the conquering armies a Rome.  
I mean, every Julian some soulless plutocrat 
         Pinch an empire? 
And thee be a nameless cog a Tuey’s retinue.
     Certain you have no Latin and 
            What good be no common tongue
What be ta converse. 
      No offense, but be you leave this bony pate,
            As l call upon that insurrect Spartacus.
What we plot til me hide rots away.
            I not want ta sit in silent stare
Or tutelage a some heathen tongue, 
      This exile be not sanctuary, more a boar in a pen
What mill about in his own filf at Crassus’s whim.
      And be all I know Crassus purchase this island
Wif the blood a what few here inhabit.
            Such a fortune erase a race a giants
As quick as the science a Archimedes or Democritus dispose,
      For what be immortal be nature exposed
What the gods be stunts and blind volition
             And Crassus bilk from a credulous rube 
Or better yet bet his man Hilarus 
     Render by arms the island monster free
Wif a half dozen mutilate and rot corpses a gargantua
           Stabbed and plucked from the sea
Or bears wif dead gladiator’s faces jigged in
       What hexed his insula be what no incarnation 
Be he man or god or demi-god but Crassus protect
      Not even Herakles’ or Alexander’s 
              Wif their tragic defect
What be hot fury not calm bunko as be Crassus’ combat.
Not ta say Crassus’ not gird Hermes belt wifout a sword.

Ictus Discourses wif the Spirit a Spartacus Ictus: “So Spartacus, what say you. We be bofe men a folly. I aggrieved a me tongue, you a your life. What life there be but for servitude .” Spartacus: “Hold Ictus what compare thee ta me. What be slave a thee what Hilarus say But chained ta your consign drivel? What you be free here ta spout Where none be afflict a your infect. If it be audience thy want The Roman arena awaits, For it be struggle what be a thy nature, But not thy implement or device. What be a rebel what cower at the blade? For if it be blade versus debate and venomous verbs There be no second chance ta be afraid. And did’n I crucify a munifex, not a poet. And Though a thousand sissies sing the praise a Licinius Crassus What out a ear shot or in defeat or good wine Soon as sing the praises a me. And Crassus hang 6000 along the Appian Way Ta warrant all who pass be slaves What liberty be but ta be ta enslave ourselves. And much prized this manumission ta embrace cares and woes And the cares and woes a thousands That be mere death’s enslavement What point lesser men abide without hope a necessity. I be slave ta killin’ til I kill what enslave me. You. You be a slave lest thou kill what be you. Crassus what ported thee here be your master, be he not. What he not even feel the burden of a single wave To toss thee here. I know not whence or what By speech or temperament thy be a slave Or what intemperate heat like Hero’s turbine Sizzles from your hole what spin a tiny globe To name it but ta be one’s own. But if here not slave you be but a rock What waves dash ta rouse thy fury. What forge be ta make a Vulcan toy? Here you may cry fathoms ta Rome’s shores Or hurry thy addle what declare thee the emperor a crabs. This be as much a threat a thy purpose Even as you steam and gobble your bold citizenry. Thousands cast off their chains and slit throats Ta follow me While you and your cell of mopey dissolute Think parryin’ wif your prick on the Palatine Or announcin’ up be down or right left Be such revolt. Or babble confound a Crassus Ta topple what be gained by blood. Ah, poet. Thou be but a poet. What be called when all else fails. Canus: “What I be but ta amuse the patriarchy, What be Crassus assign his best slave Ta traffic me here? Be not such wisdom as tell Crassus ‘Go Fuck Himself’ Writ in shit upon his atrium wall What set fire in thy breast? What not me spit upon his drapery Embolden thee perched next his divan or litter, What I’ll wager me words pried thy hand From thy festering crotch to scratch thy pate? Be me and mine the root a rebellion What steal fruit from the field And plant seed a me own hard ground. First it be in the head. Then it be in the arm. This liberty. As you say, what man know he naught Be a slave til a glimmer a change come at the lash. And then extreme me visage, naked, rank, As the arena dirt be baked on thee. Wif Hilarus appetite blind him what it is ta be free. What Cynics foil not appetite but its attendant luxury. Base in all things, all things that be base. Spartacus: “You speak a me servitude But naught a insurrection. What be you rebel but what wipes his arse Upon Artemis’ drapes and piss on passersby. And pick on slow Plato What converse be ground ta dust in your mind Wif his ten twinks and they’s rich daddies And the sweet, faint aroma a rectum at symposia, What thy few catamites prove what study Be firm what be thy take a hygiene. No slave seek thee out for one not seek The Nothin’ he already knows.” Ictus: “Slave knows a little a me as I be a him. For as such I be disport a what I choose What bed I lie. What temple portico I dream under. What be imbibe a the gods what nature be Not restrained by simple logic and Pythagorean confine. If I be strapped like Hilarus or Crassus Could we here speak frank?” Spartacus: “What frank to hear but this skull Wif what you propose me. Dare say you, you be the lesser man What doth not take up arms? No. You be the lesser slave What wants all ta be slave in you. Slave wif what appears no fetters What eat, drink, fuck and shit But ta quibble wif his betters. What be a lady’s finery ta you? What be Crassus’s treasure? You, Ictus, lose every bout, Blade sheathed or wif out.” Ictus: “Should this be ghost talk What be a no substance ta furtherize his cause. Crassus’s does not bear upon a discrete cosmos. His very city, Rome, be replete wif his blood cause. Better be shackled by our better nature Than contend wif our worse.” Spartacus: “What say thee a bonds What must be broken Before a slave entertain some betta nature What be true a you as it be me. Thy assess be flawed For many in me death see life. For it’s me betta nature What break off these chains?” Ictus: Is what be now as thee be but in death. And what be thee as Empedocles be chucked a Aetna, What by deed thee be immortal What the crowd mob the amphitheaters And Lucian be consiliare to one’s soul What exurgo launch Empedocles up to the dewy moon What be back hand for the fool be burnt. These be what deem these what thee be. What prate the stage ta adorn or mock. What be scented grey and scrubbed Epicure What moves among the divans Piquant a any dainty and scoff a any good, What beset his quiecse be buoyed upon other’s labor As his bon mots be acquitted by Vergilius. For here thy bones attest What man as we dwell here live on dew? False and immortal what Aetna belch back thy shoe. Where’s me wine sack? For bickering over franchise upon this prospect dries me out. Slave be I never. Neither taken nor taken in. Shackles and bond be not affair a mine, For who would bond me what has so little need And speaks none a puttin’ butter And honey upon the table. A swig a wine ta beat back these heroes. (takes swig and a long belch). Ah, there be me clarion call. Hail! Me little sandy devils. Stay thy claws til thy hear me poem. Lucian out done enough ta be hopeful a Peregrinus. These stars stab me as thee done Herakles. But stage our god, Lucian, what make a Crassus a demi-god And Spartacus a goat. And what say in a generation There be but falsehoods. What be better guide than these furbelows? What be but belletristic shades a bestiality? What an empire starin’ down a Roman nose Be led down a garden paf Wif some greater myf in the hedges. Hah! Bless be Hilarus what leave me sack So’s a mine me feels a bit a heft. What little sage be left. This Lucian Samasote what mock Peregrinus And be not direct and concise about our dear Diogenes. Still d’un he beat thrice his Alexander wif a Parthian Shot. What make out the Paphlagonian Ta be a babblin’ busker and two bit oracle. What be a mix a this Jesu fella What at same the Paphlagonain despise And report of a client’s son back from India Wif preachment a past lives What unfailin’ be royal and peerless. And a snake, Glycon, what be a fearful purport What be a little more than a hand puppet, Always in shadow as truf be in time. And Jesu’s proxy a the second comin’ As be this Simon Magus what retool Christus And after purchase a some Philip’s bag a tricks Storms the empire wif his sorcery. Christian this Simon, I say, what Magus despise And Magus be austere Christus but to veil his franchise Such clear evil what ta question callow intent Be as forgivin’ these cults What be well-meaning but ignorant . And Spartacus fall silent as he be a the dead. What be me silence As these dead but be in me head. And so Charon and master Pluto. The whole Pantheon be in me skull Wif its stone dome be there ta gull. It too be empty wifout wit. And claws gather what sleep doth feed What me spent ta deny such need, But ta smash and feast ta supply me own. Watch them scurry about the surf What me rocks and fire prove their worf. Me fire lit. Me quarry scorched. Will thy not eat, Spartacus? No. Drink? Fine claret Hilarus leave by. Bring out thy gout and leaden thy eye. (Phlegmy laugh) The cosmic joke be on us tanight. What Lucian rakes the bones from the dust What fancy he cert character ta fate Ta right the temper a the universe. But any toss be circumscribed a Jove. Hesiod say ‘Very far off dwell virtue.’ While you and I say ‘Very far off dwell Rome’, And fuck Nature it be damned As I be at eat these crabs What me shite be funked a million corpses, What all me days me praise the bottom feeder. The underdog what Consider me more the victual than the eater. ’ But Rome be a bit more distant for you, For you be but boxed A some macabre bounty And not make much a it Likely be you too dead ta light out Or hope or yearn Or what poets wif theys backs ta the dark Mistake a cracklin’ flame for a rebel heart.

Ictus Is Overwhelmed wif Self-Pity

But if this be quarantine what some phantom pox
      Or infect a me preachment
Be more ta follow unless Crassus 
      Will me enisled a more bitter pill.
Even lepers fair have mates ta 
      Share what mystery afflict and doty pain
What relief be in it echoed in mutual howl.
     What Hippocrates name the Phoenician Scourge
What be maritime ta me a what agent 
     Carry such cruel consequence upon merchant seas
The same what be about our luxuries.
      As Plutarch and Herodotus mark pig’s milk lepra’s  source
            And swine rut a the moon’s wane,
        What sow wise Leviticus, 
            The Semites  condemn unclean
And the Egypt’s imbibe but once a Julian 
        What sacrifice a pig ta the moon
But be it not this concourse between nations
        What barter this foul disease
Where before none exist.
             Did not the cynic, Onesicritus, companion
Alexander ta Indus and Taprobane
             What his brain become mealy wif lies. 
        And some say cholera be a me nature
            What wif me bein’ a the filfy sort 
So’s none invite me ta vesperna much less cena
        For fear a what me sunken eyes not exhibit
            But thirst for sorcery and magic contrive.
       Or that I be mad what preach and spread such
As me scat about the garden what consider like me mind
            Quite nourish the soul a Ceres.
       The vote be as the divans be empty when I arrive. 
Yet I possess not a leper’s cankers.
       Nor express outward sheath a sores. 
            The Rome what billeted me here, 
Such as we circle this provocation each ta other
       Claiming which be ill and close tenders death.
Thus the dance a death be no absolute a pustules,
       The clamoring a fevers and hack of rheums,
And biles and phlegms upon the bed sheets.
        But be beaten iron cunning and sharp still hot
Upon this rind, this husk what malevolent natures reprove
           As we do the god’s work mistaken in our station
And nothing spared of this insolence caste down in turn
           Ta clench and hiss in Vulcan’s constant forge.

Canus Names Cynics the Guard Dogs a the Gods

Be it here I am deprived of me contempt
           A what counterfeit Rome be aglow.
Here in the darkness where but the boar’s grunt rebukes
    And the crickets chatter a their marketplace
And assignate in the salty marsh.
               As little as I be a their kind it be a dog
What world ease me passin’ here? 
          More than a skull on a stick I dare say.
Or whereabouts on this insula be a wolf 
      What I steal a pup what be weaned 
And make it crazy wif care
           Such that it know not its nature
Ta subserve mine. But why be we dogs?
      For what turnspit breed seek deprivation
What find a master’s hearth and 
          Ward off all what would approach 
What be more Hilarus than Ictus
     Whose slander be feral as his bite and bespeak infect 
         And rupture and wivvered limbs.
Be me not more wolf what be a breed 
     What raise up this very Rome
And remnant a some course a fealty ta Mars 
     So’s us Cynics be guard dogs a the gods
And hunt our prey wif deeds and words.
         What he fancy toy wif Ovid,
Our Sinope jape he be Melitan when rapacious
         But Molossian when sated
     What not pegged breed or gaze.
         And don’t this portend favor a the gods,
     At least what be wit’s assurance.
But sure slave what Hilarus be chained by day 
             As be Cato’s dictum,
     Ta be keen ta protect Crassus wealf at night.
              And what Hilarus hunt the likes a me 
     It be at bid a Crassus. 
              And what be Varro’s idyll?  
Hilarus be perfect wif a bulbous head 
         What be sustain a boulder’s blow,
Sturdy teef in a ruddy jowel wif a well spring a drool,
         And droopsy ears wif mange and ticks, 
Thick shoulders wif a melium about its neck, 
                   Wide damp paws, 
               And a thick tail, wif a deep, rheumy bark and 
         White ta discern from thief or prey in the dark.   
Does this not describe Hilarus 
         As a momma ferret smell out her brood? 
Hilarus what hunts not for himself but his master.            
     Crassus what crucify 6000 rebels along the Appian Way.
And me left here ta account the day
              What I regret he not crucify me.
         Soon me wine runs out and 
Crabs and cockles leave me belly off ta bloat and churn,
         Wif me spare cynicism draggin’ out the sentence.
For be not Crassus or Hipparchus already take up Ira’s mask,
         Whirlin’ in moonlight at water’s edge
Keenin’ shards a Livius and Seneca.


Canus Recalls How the Roman Cynic Foetipedus 
Is Credited wif the Discovery of Pecorino Romano

What our dear Foetipedus rescue several chickens 
          From the fate of another’s belly.
This be from a poor village a Apulia 
         What over patrone Blandus Balbus preside,
And where before him Foetipedus be brought.
     But a the moment Balbus be about his Cicero
For his speech be spew of a sputtering pot
         And this be all ta say a its charm.
     But far from what our carus Ciceronis present
For toadies and prophets be  
     But perfect in what be their presentiment
        Concealin’ imperfection in their true intent
Lest their heads be shed a their body whole.
      So Baldus order “La-la-lo-lock this 
Foetipe-pe-pe-d-d-dus fellow among the sheep
      Until me dispatch quin-quin-quin-que 
Canno-no-no-nonicus wifout shame
         Be set before Ci-ci-ci-cicero  
              And Demo-mo-mo-mo-thenes.”
And thus Foetipedus be cast among the sheep
      What stable take on the stink 
              What jam our dear cynic harbor 
      Tween the toes a his feet
              And under the roof a his limp arbor.  
And here languish our dear cynic 
         Refreshed a hot milk right way from the tit
But soon a foul sour curdle be imbue a it
      What colonies a muck what engage upon
Foetis feet and scrote be soaked up 
               A bofe milk and meat.
      And stored in such a pungent state
The flesh grow funk and the milk thick and rank,
     What take on the stank a Foetis’ feet’s auric crust.
And for a fee farmers brought their bland cheese,
     For a fortnight our cynic’s feet upon it take their ease
         And like water ta wine 
     Or Simon Magus what serve all Rome
             A fine cheese a thin air,
      Foetipedus dallied many a year upon his back
          And thought namore of philosophy - alack, alack, alack. 
For what not only by upending did he please the palate
          But the patron Baldus be not estranged a Cicero
And his factitious doxy na more
      For what cure our Foeti  provide
            Baldus have his cavern frescoed in the cynic’s jam
And thus have cache a pecorino what 
            Come down ta this day and much please us,
      What sauce and pasta much abide,
And what filf again be once ta the cynics shame
           Now be tribute of assurance and fame.

 Canus Comes Upon the Graveyard of Shipwrecks
What be a this? Sandy beach and southy peak?
           What be the paces a me insula? 
Shall I be eat by a bear or by a boar be gored?
       Is there a cool repast and spring?
Or fiery lip upon the summit 
                         What likewise invite Empedocles?
        Thoughts what occupy a cynic’s walk
‘Til he come upon a boneyard a Minoan merchants,
       Stone cypress piled in heaps by Santorini’s wrath
Wif skeletons wove as please this isle.
       And in the distance the prow of a trireme 
                 Nods toward a spit
A human bones picked clean by Neptune’s yardies.
       And six stadi hence the Semite’s ship, 
            The keel  300 cubits bakin’ in the sun,
    Wif scattered vittles ne’r time nor crabs undone,
Driven aground in the Great Flood and truf be told
          All lost and not a fawn or cub survive;
An Arawat be this tombstone a animal bone
            What rival any carnage a Apicius’ table.
       Too late for this flesh but what fed from it be about.
What be the world’s menagerie be reduced 
       A these what scuttle about
           Bones chastened wif arcadian piety.
Piled like Vulcan’s broom across Etna’s floor
           And heaped upon this insula’s shore.
      Elephants wif teeth struck from their jowels,
Like me dear Hipparchia, and bones
           Weaned a their flesh, half in tide,
       As here at the Pillars of Herakles 
           They perish as though at Hannibal’s labors
                     And not folly a flood a some Semite god.
          And bones a dragons and giants 
                     What be as trunks a trees
          Or columns six times the size the beasts
     Hannibal marched across the Pyrenees.  
Skulls a lions, leopard and cameleopard and bears entwined
      Wif the wildebeest, lambs, zebras and serpents a all kinds,
           What sundry the earf be a revelation ta mankind
      And a fine minced tartar or cold soup for the oofy few
           What be masters what take dominion and make a stew. 
And camel’s bones what got its dugs hoist on its back.
      And dogs and cats what Roman households not lack.
          Hyenas, jackals, panthers and wolves.
      Jaguars, stags, bears and boars
          Piled against the waves pummeling the shore.    
A more melancholic scape no Sophocles out keen,
        Where be this Noah scattered as others there
As me fancy Spartacus’ be an alien skull
         What ta sharpen me wit lest by disuse 
                 It and me become as it were, dull.
Thus I play out this course 
         A eruption, flood, transmogrified Jew
              Lest farce be niggled and bound a me and you.   

And there be the shipwreck a the Achaeans
          What from hunger defy the gods
What form the man and fate the hardship
       Like a worm what squirm half under a boot.
    For what be Helios’ beef for these lost sailors
              For ta starve be ta thwart fear
         For but a stew what be made more savory 
In a land replete a leeks and turnips, lentils, peas
     And  a sinewy shank a Zeus’s steer.
         For what vengeful god forsake such legumes
              Among a gravy a kidney and tripe
And pursue cunnin’ Odysseus’s no less his cunnin’ crew.
     For half the men lay dead at the bottom a the sea 
            For but splash a pepper and garum
                And the citement thereof.
And these what be weary a Odysseus folly wif stars
      For naught less a Calypso say keep the Bear ta thy left
Whilst watchin’ the Pleaides.
            But these be as Odysseus 
                  Tappin’ his head and rubbin’ his abs,
All the fornicator bring ta bear
            Droozy a Calypso’s bed what that cunt suck 
The very marrow a your bones.
      A mem what upon this insula 
           And bearin’ shipwreck be right ta home.
What Homer say, Odysseus be wif Pyfias at his side
      And still bring his fleet naught from the lot.
What ten years ta go but 
             A few paces from Troy ta Ithaca?
Admitted the gods do fuck wif the sticky shite
            And weary the plot, liar what finish malcontent
Wif his last lothario breaf what be far from home
            Lest he pitch his tent upon the sea.
And that be the last we hear a the bloody liar
       But for the burblin’ a poets what be little worf
And such say Aristotlese be cast out from this earf
       For such accounts a the Achaean’s lies urge 
Men on ta greater canards, monumental wrongs
            And hideous purge.

At this juncture a note appears in the margin of Ictus’s text which reads
“’Rodrigo Borgia has had glory holes drilled in the confessionals so the
fine ladies of Subiaco may more diligently offer up their penance.’
- Da dietro a Gesù Cristo, 1492”

And Atrahasis a Akkadian Fame 
            What no blame be placed by gods upon mankind 
For such chapter like the world be washed away. 
   And this Gilgamesh revive what every beast alive
       Be consigned wifin a 120 cubits
Where the circus a Rome stay a hundred times 
       Brutes in cages and pens what hold not a fraction,
Not a myriadum a the world’s catabuli.
       What the wise cynic by ratio suss out lies
And leave off such bruits and canards.
           And as content such hazards be on-dit, 
Men what die a commerce 
           Market myth ta cut their losses.
And as our hero Ictus ponder this
     As Empedocles might the edge a his go-to abyss
He spied a skull and what ta speak
          Cupped it by the jaw
But ta have the phantoms bones arise entire.
          And up gli umidi another upon another
     And this collegium followed him
           And crowd about his small campfire.
And each held a short sword 
          And a dragon’s tooth about his neck
For these be the Spartoi spawned 
          A Cadmus what wif them seed the earf.  
“Does Agenor’s boy know you’re about? 
             Does Ovidius?
         Does your serpent here creep 
     For here he be but meat?
No lark a you lot what be spawn
        But set upon one anovver.
Not no Jovian curse a ancestors
        Or illicit Thrinacian barbie here. 
               Not no fuck a some pale goddess
What blush her guilt ta her celestial spouse
        Or confess it outright and hurl a golden comb.
No winsome Io what an immortal might envy
        And out of pique plunge thee upon one another.
No demand a Agenor, father ta proxy son,
        Ta rescue a runaway daughter from no less than Jove. 
You wif no patrimony at all, no father or mother.
               From the muck half-formed like worms and toads
        What brood a earth
And call man back to his mortal state.
        Deprived of every pleasure but slaughter
And yet turned one upon another in that
             Like feral dogs on a scrap
        For the purses a poets
And what keep the hoi polio trump wif whit and jot
        Cozen such exotica as you be.”

At this juncture a note appears in the lower margin of Ictus’s text which reads
“’Rodrigo Borgia has had grilles placed in the jakes whereby the clergy may
confess their sins whilst the aroma of their morning ablutions reminds them
of their mortality.” - Da dietro a Gesù Cristo, 1492”

Ictus Addresses the Spartoi

I, poor Ictus before you be, 
    But a retiari a the arena what parry wif me trident
            And cast me net
Ta press the arrant wages a the sycophants and hypocrites,
            Posers and frauds, 
All but ta be cast out for me wit and virtue,
        Spared but that me death be slow ignominy 
            Upon this insula a bones.
And thus a Rome I have an axe ta grind
        And attend its use upon skulls not trees.
I be not fierce a stature but among these crabs
    Me veins be right sauced wif venom
And me jowels hard grip sinewed a much incessant speech,
        More terse and blunt what cause me homeland’s breach
And ta stifle got me cast upon this beach. 

What say I be your general, your Arminius, me friends, 
              And you be me horde
All skull and bone, armored outward
              Like me crabs,
Hung wif short sword and trident.
        And back we sail ta assail Rome
It’s transgress upon our goodly natures.
        Much as you be the livin’ dead
Much abused by the poets.
      And me likes, makes Crassus’ see red.
And be I the drift if not the cast a general ?
             Have not I the bandy legs of an equestrian
       If but ta mount me queen Loquatia?
And thunderous roar a me nether parts 
             What attest Jove’s favor a our campaigns.
        And I be spared a saddle 
As you spare a pack train a stores
        What you bein’ but bone 
             And but me remain a skin and guts alone.
         And as I be bareback into battle
Thee sans prick as need not a caravan a whores.
        Nor cooks and scullery, be I not aright.
And as I s’pose your lot,
            No tabernaculum of games and wine
       Though such pleasures risk mutiny 
            If left behind.

And marked forward one Spartoi who knelt.
       Be this homage a arms what be what I felt?
But wif his claws he dug amongst the sand
       And dislodge a toad
          What croaked a such rude dismay
       Til our Spartoi impale it upon a spoke  
A the bony cage in what pass for his froat
          And by shift and breaf,
And simple play a the neck,
      Tuned liked a filthy cithara the bufo 
What from bestial croak til a passable Latin 
          In this manner bespoke.  

I be Ekhion and thee be daft
           What forgone between Rome and this shore
Be a great moat between you and your fellows
              See as we, Rome be uroburos a the sea
And we be fragon teef dislodged 
              And scattered a the Aegeaum Mare
       Shards a what pitiable men call Limnos, Lesbos and Chios,
Andros, Naxos and Ikaria.
       Our home be Asiana, the head a what be this guinea empire
             Its upper jaw flush wif rocky shoreline 
And the lower a teeming shoal,
      And Greece be its cold embrace and 
Italia a rear leg and gripping claw
      What be all tail ta Gaul.
      Thus Rome be Uroboros of the Mare Nostrum.
A dragon what head and upper jaw 
             Be a hard shore a Pergamum and Ephesus.
What cast thy here in this delirium
      Ta desire take up arms ‘gainst this imperium.
What I be Ictus and be I be mad if I say
          These crabs be our phalanx
What be armored a Neptune.
     Dost thou need roads or doth thee scud the ground
A grace a some filial god what take pity
          A all joy lost a you.  

Ekhion: None dare call it madness 
         For none before be so struck. 
A new age a folly be upon us 
         What baffle our physic.
Not even crazed Cleomenes crowned king
     What from pique drove bruvver Dorieus 
         From Sparta’s shore
Be so mad as to take on Darius at Miletus behest.
    Even he what be exiled as you be
         And what on some desert isle cut out his woe
And spilled it ta the crabs.
    Nor be this lunacy a yours be a the Muses
For you by your smell and manner be bereft a poesy
       What be preserve of perfumed dandies
If I takes me Petronius and Juvenal aright.
       Nor by thy stink Dionysius 
And his drunken revelers 
        What ask their vomit be result a drink
Not ta share a sack wif one 
        Whose breaf is foul, covered in sores,
Wif his tunic hoist in his crack.
       Nor so addled a plan belie prophecy
What not envision thy own bloodied body 
       In a butchered heap certain 
As many a reluctant confederate not but see
                  But seek it so.

Ictus: Ah, an educated death mask.
        What empty skulls do polly.
It be true, courage come not from bones
         For there be no heart in thy cage
      Nor nerves ta pluck.
Nor what be called guts or balls
         Where none upon you clot or hang 
And such be these what see naught pecker or puss
         And be reluctant a your sad state.
Though I s’pose backbone doth speak ta valor
     And spirit address pneuma 
         Though ye be wifout bellows
Likes us livin’, breavin’ fellas. 
      A man a arms, no I be naught
But ta boot pikeys what mull me blanket
          Or mice what peck me millet,
Though I aright some success thereof.
      Show which end a the sword and we tally
So much I be affronted by Rome.

Ekhion: Ah! Take Rome for pique? 
Then what about Elysium a Thursday?
       Or be that reserved for Avernus
What by proxim a Cumae 
       We might tell what bits a us be scattered where.
Oh, Ekhion thigh shin bone be a the shadow 
       A the volcanoes foot next the head a this Canus,
What it ever possess one be bereft a brain.
    What be we? Some dire cult?
What can yours know a 
       What it be ta be spring from a toof
What nurture be but a brief nuzzle a Gaia?
       What be Rome’s stores ta us?
And what’s more what they be ta you
    What philosophy seem born a anger
What in all things Diogenes and Crates 
            And Sagacius be spare. 
    As not bear what thee harbor?

Peloros: Wait. For sure he be mad.
What not bear olfactory cause
            Still be racked a his smell,
As filth cling to cloak and beard
         And empty wineskins about, 
What he be besot and mad as old Herakles
    Wif stains a where his prick and asshole be.
And such be Sterquilinus what our dimune cynic
    Be fertile a chiggers and mites
And what all manner a flies be about
         As though he be but a pikey road apple
                 What sprout legs.
And certain be Cloacina what carry away
         All Rome’s shite what surpass
All but Hades in stink. Hades, soul rank, what Orpheus 
              Barnstorm before Pluto and Persephone
Ta best plush Eurydice’s escape.
         What Horace say Pluto be obdurate 
               What not a tear shed a any smell
Even the malodor a verse. 
         But Claudian claim the Emperor a Hell
With iron cloak wipes his tears
         The better employ be ta wipe his arse.
Such a bitter fruit doth Orpheus release
         It sparkle a common man’s nether hairs
Wif shards of funky, fetid airs.
         And doth not Ovidius cite rank odor
A Zeus’s ballocks as he ape in shape of a bull
         What fuck Io whilst stamping 
                About a his own stool
What Io be cow find solace 
         What make such a rank god tolerable.
And goose be funky so doubt a bit a swan.
         Certain these gods be petty and whimsy
As be mankind, so stink be sure ta follow
     For Tiberius be he not reluctant god
What for his blistered skin and runny cankers
        Be dishonored wif those what stole 
A rag about their nose and not distinguish between
    Slave or kin for what offends did them in. 
Thus as Tibi stink drive one ta believe 
            He be a god’ prerogative.  

Yet hath he not power to bring us forth?
       And does not madness spring a divinity?
This be divine as divine be inscrutable ta us
    As it be ta what outward be his kind.

Ekhion: You mean he be what Socrates call a poet?
If he be poet I slay the thing right here
        And scoop his marrow ta the crabs.
For if this be divine, Jove be ta pack up heaven 
        And grab an oar ta wander in time 
As thus we be fated.

Ictus: Poet? What be I  
        Orpheus wif crabs for Maenads.
               Or Argos’ destiny 
As me song be a mewling cunt
        What buskin’ ‘bout the Appian
Account herself a siren.
‘I will count meself blest by fate 
When all Rome calls Caesar great .
And wif many spoils you from  Parthia return
A goat and a chicken to Jove I’ll burn.’ 

Ekhion: Nay. He be no poet.  But what ta Achilles 
Agamemnon confide “Zeus rob me a me wits.”
        Not what precise a what Socrates say be divine.
But what thee say be prudent, Pelorus,
    For his poem be martial
And little a the poet be a the martial mind.
    And in kind a little mind be like ta be martial.
But be that poet’s face divine?

Peloros:  Did not Dionigi 
          What the Minyades tell ta bugger off
Warp inta a bull, a lion, and a panther in turn
           What fright the sisters?
And Jupiter be a bull what rape Io
         And a swan what same upon Leda,
And sent a golden shower upon Danae
        What from Vernacchio ta Terence 
Doth Rome’s fearless comics ape ad nauseam
      And happily spray upon a witting audience
Even as our Ictus stink 
      A many such cloudy yellow bursts
From the nozzle a his wrinkled purse.

Ekhion: Well said. But a bull or swan by nature
     Reflect beauty what be a its kind.
But this Ictus, he be a misshapen bit
        What be not a favorable compare
What all in nature be contradict. 
               Mad sure. But
Be this stick a twisted driftwood divine?
        Cast out a Rome bein’ a lumbago ta contentment,
Ta roam in rags this jagged coast,
        A hearth wif stars for eave and 
What boast but the hiss a crabs and mussels
        And what be a brace a winded wine sacks
Be orphaned Orpheus a brew a bitter sea grass.
        This be a demi-god’s temple?
Rocks, bone and sand?
         And no Siren song a this Ictus,
Me sword drawn lest he sing again.
     Be this Ictus a spawn a Zeus
And a his own palaver be he not a the arts
        And wine like mos’ but ta drink it, 
What be common among less than gods
                What savor ambrosia and 
What ichor flood their veins.
         What he be ol’ Ira’s pot and pan
His plot be but frenzy and rage
         And he be by cynics wage, ‘Dog Bite’,
As what be the Greek’s Lyssa,
         Daughter a the Night’s Sky, Nyx and Ouranos,
              What in mini-skirt wore the a cur’s head 
         What outlook be the actor Vernacchio
What don a carcass of a Papillon
        What dear, dark, pocky Tiberius revere.
And an emperor’s death writ
        Hound the actor’s scent 
What would play wif Ira’s mantel
               His stench traced among the Semites
More so a his hot and fearful  flight.
        For does a daimona stink like our Ictus?
Or what dolt believe Tibi be a god
        Much less our Canus? 
Gods bear no odor a flesh unless 
        In such mantle they doth dress.

Peloros: But does not Neptune reek a fish
What wif them he doth abide?

Ekhion: No, asshole. This be an idle wish
For Neptune doth constant bathe.
Peloros: Then Hephaistos what in perpetuity 
        Be muckin’ ‘bout his forge.
Or again Hades for are not the dead rank,
        What be other teloi but custom 
What hold spices and herbs fend the stank.
        Or Doth not Ictus bung perfect mimic
A Mephitis what gas rise above a swamp?
        Not so much Mena’s cunnie
What want the caked rot a Pales’ dung
       About the flanks a his sheep. 
There be many which ways Ictus 
       Doth sink like a god.

Ictus: Enough! What god lean its divinity upon smell?
Doth not Aristoteles name sight and sound, 
         Touch and taste as well.

Peloros: Shall we then lick thee Ictus,
         Or bite thee?
For we be ‘bout the sight and sound a ye 
    And ye be as heavy ta the touch as mordant ta the smell.
And thus we be imbue a thee by watch thy feature 
        And that be thy stink.
Ekhion: And so even as a hound track vermin in the dark
        But naught by wet nose ta the ground  
Ictus, we not be a your escapade ta Rome
              For no matter how brusk thy aroma be
   You be passed sense.
        You what brandish a sword like a stick
Wif a toggle a sizzlin’ goat gristle 
        And offal secured ta it
Wif fragrant smoke but ta favor thy belly, 
        Sore, as no god favor thee. 

Udaeus, another Spartoi: Peloros, Ekhion
     Glance east upon the sea. Beyond the hump
A the homunculus with the sun at his back, 
           Two ships appear
     Light a load as they ride high. 
Best we scatter among these bones  
          ‘Til this Ictus suss out who they be.

And the Spartoi shed their shape
          And wif a clatter fell ta ground in heaps
As though so many augur bones tossed a Cumae cooze
     And blend as they be wif the dead.
For certain two liburnae approach
     And me wif the settin’ sun straight in me mincers
          And what lollygag about its goin’ down.
‘Til not three actae be between me and the two scows
     What I see Hilarus and his customary retinue
          A Crassus cutthroats. But lo, bare above the rail be
The ruddy scalp and quick eyes a me dear Loquatia,
      Her wif what coil like cobras 
          A many a gutter, hedge and thorougfare wif yours truly.
And fore upon the ovver skiff be
      Me mates Captius Hectorus and Factitius Bilius 
         Wif his mistress Bodacia
What be runner-up a Julia’s appetites
      In the great butt bangin’ tournaments a Cloacina
Where the sewers be host the Eleusian mysteries
     As part and parcel be shit to fecundity.
And our dear Bodacia be queen what make Julia blush
     And a Tiberian office what in hgh honor
              Lead pilgrims ta Eleusis
     Where even Cicero find the fertile measure a fuckin’
If not the pleasure. And our good emissary
          Stay limber ‘bout the year
What she weigh not a libra 
          And what that be half pud
What abide prick like a quiver doth arrows.


Ictus and Loquatia Play the Beast wif Two Backs

Me heart leapt at such, 
        At least about what be its confinement,
            And me prick be unfettered agent a me joy
When the prow a Hilarus fleet 
        Breach the lonesome sand a the beach
And me and me dear Loquatia
        Fucked a clear day and night in the sand
Where crabs nibble and tides wash
    While our passion dispose
        Beyond all Pythagorean ration
And salt crust our padlocked lips.
    What so long I be tuggin’ me slug
What straight away ta exhaustion 
        Me and Loquatia fuck on the beach.
Conjure Morpheus when Hilarus wakes us.
        “While you two fucked and slept
Bodacia service the entire crew
        Thrice over though the cabin boy be but six 
               And the first mate a leper. 
It’s time we disembark 
        And leave you to your rituals and appetites.”

Note: Here in the margins and for some pages Gentilli O. Nelli and 
other members of the Umbrian school have scrawled many renderings with
the figure of Bodacia being sodomized with various devices implements
of war and implements of ecclesiastical benediction by various emperors,
kings, merchants, saints and popes, etc. including St. Benedict. In a
number of illustrations the likeness of Benedict’s sister, St. Scholastica,
is placed upon the naked body of the Roman diva, Bodacia. The meaning of
such blasphemy is left to the reader. But it must be recalled that the
monks of Subiaco attempted to poison Benedict due to the harshness of his
rule. Elsewhere in the monastery compound, the frescoes on either side of
the west window depict Florentius' Attempt to Poison St. Benedict. On the
left, a woman dressed in pink delivers a poisoned loaf of bread to
St. Benedict in a cave. On the right, Benedict directs his raven to
carry the poisoned loaf away where it can do only harm to the innocent
creatures of the wood.

Bodacia be a Roman fame what inspire
       Many a epic verse what shame sage Vergil
Or certain be no worse. For ta the kittim 
      She be Gaia incarnate
            A cooch like the Gates a Cumae 
      Or the grotto at Praeneste.
            A legationi what Crassus bank
       What feign belief lest he confound the masses.
And to by pomp and coin right 
            What Vergil amend a this Aeneas chap
      When Rome be found a Romulus and Remus 
            Suckled at Lupa’s pap.
And she be a Pompeius Trogus’  account,
      The tale a the late King Claudico 
           What Bodacia be his queen
      When from lack a heat under her ol’ pot ‘n’ pan
She take a shepherd’s farcimini into her roaring oven
            What these a this rude employ be fit for lovin’ 
As wif their staff in tow they frolic ‘mongst their flock
      And she be a right fit bird 
               What be left ta truck wif her king,
     That ol’ dry turd.
            But Claudico menace Bodacia, havin’ none a it.
       And a spite his puckered pizzle test her might
What she alterate him ta a fly 
       What ply the walls about their bed
Where every shepherd, farrier and hod 
               A her fecund and supple cunt she be wed.
And what a shear chance a new empire be born 
       What o’er shadow Rome in all but scorn
               And tarry out its thousand years.
And she be inspire a Nimius Monoesius’ Catalog Mulerium
       A geneaology a rapes by gladiators and emperors 
                What by their own decree be the incarnate a gods
What be wry remark 
                For many stand and stink likes a you ‘n’ me.
      And as Previus Varius plucked from Tacitus, 
           Princess Boudica, the warrior queen a Britannia,
Our Bodacia prate the stage what wif sex and sword
     And lay bare wif fond and vengeful verse
           What whatever come a empire at end come worse. 

Or Atrabilus in his Concordia what noble Odysseus
     Fagged a Ithaca and sick for the sea
Spread Bodacia’s bodice for sail and her hairpin as rudder
           What immortal lines be pickled 
     As adventures what our fair poets calls ‘pickles’,
           And what our Odysseus be clearly in much brine
                    Whist he stalk the Mare Nostrum.
‘And lo, Bodacia what see the Ithacan’s plight
           Drain the cock a Neptune 
What leave the godly reprobate quite contrite
      And the sea lull as his pizzle entire be spent
And to the oars and upon the backs 
                    A the Ithacan’s yardies 
           The sleepy waters be circumvent.’ 
But in verses  4002 ta 5009 yet yawns a chasm like a drain
     Shape a fearsome maelstrom and a sovereign thing
                 What suck many a warship
           As such in the heaven’s  Nigri Formeni
Vigilant seek stars aflame
           What gather worlds about them 
                 As gyrate waters do the same.

And Livius Andronicus be known a his Odusia
       What confirm by such verse what Greek guile 
   Not be apportioned by the gods entire.
       But a little renown be his Tragodeia Bodatiae;
A fabula palliata what the heroine sails her fleet
              Beyond the Pillars of Herakles
And all but outdone Odyssi in amours, blood and lies.
    Or though slight a build and firm
               She what test Apicius’s table in a caustic farce 
Worvy a Archestratus as recipes be diced about
           From Homeric hexameter’s epical redoubt.
Thus a clot a curds and milk be compare 
               A concourse wif the divine
           Or slabs a bacon and grease wif Circe’s swine.
And mackerel be got on the third day
           Took wif bread and wine
Before the brine beset the flesh and stay.
            Or finely ground flour be as Ithacan youth
Dashed upon the rocks
       Or what be poached amongst Polyphemi’s flocks. 
But Dionisi Jackleg paste a folly what Archestratus
       What “Be ignorant of mos’ fings and tell us nuffin’.” 
What our ‘eroes be but a barley muffin?       
       This Archie-stratus chap not be worvy a Homer 
Wif his baked boarfish, mushrooms, asparagus 
               And Parmesan toppin’,
What do speak ta hunger but as verse be rubbish
       Fit fodder but for the bowel’s concoction. 

And what by Ennius many a Greek dysfunction 
        Be sung frough the veil a Bodacia.
What a lad shag his mum and such,
        And rash done up his dad.
What so Plautus, many a royal be done in by bad help
        What very employ me mum had 
               When I be but a whelp.
For who but the gods know such things
        What by Paris, Achillles’ heel the fatal arrow stings.
Paris, what his Trojan boner burst his tunic
      Ta rival the wars we kittim calls Punic.
Yet, Paris what his pap, King Priam, once again 
             Be done in by the help,
The shepherd, Agelaus, what the king employ
      Ta drown or stab or strangle the boy,
What leave him ta starve upon Mount Ida
      What the infant be suckled beside a bear 
The lad live ta be the undoin’ a the Trojan Imperium,
      Felled by Philoctetes arrow who like Achilles too
          Suffer a wound ta the foot
What appear, dear reader, the gods 
              Supply these Greeks with but a dearth a plot,
      Couple a arrow wounds, two at the ankle 
          What one be left to weep and rot
And as yours truly personal attests
          The plot a Ajax be exile and barbs
       And abandonment upon some alien plot
Not native as our Hebrews wif their tale a Moses
       What wif the good sense be of a happier end 
If not for old Moses for Moses kin.

What I not be bitter 
           What need not a bear ta suckle nor a shewolf,
       Nor be a ward a Rome.
What I certain be closer ta myf
            More I be abandoned a home. 
And here among these rocks and bones
            Found a kingdom wif me wife Loquatia
       What naught a Clytemnestra 
For we have no daughter, nor I mistress
       Much less a young one
What wif prophecy distress the polis.
       And Hilarus’s skiff breach the last wave ashore,
And a scow second wif our two cynics 
          And our two daughters a Rome not far behind. 
And Hilarus bound ashore wif two swart Mollosian’s
          On a leash a either hand,
And swagger atop a berm a bones
          Followed by his cutthroat band
Whilst Loquatia and Bodacia, and Hectoris and Bilius
      What latter by their dimmer lights
In a shady spot keep a certain Sinopean cynic in view
          But of not such fashion for there be but a few. 

The Spartoi Slew Hilarus’ Retinue

And as all deboard and stand upon the sandy shore From the heaps a bones the Spartoi erupt And forthright Ekhion distance one a Crassus’ mercs From his head. The Spartoi broch no strategem And a legion a 10,000, so sewn be the Dragon Teeth What wif the speed a Hermes If not for Hilarus His entire crew be dead. Hilarus what sally forth And rally his force and against all odds Dismantled a 1000 Spartoi Before Pelorus and 100 spiny mates take him down, Slice his gullet what evince that bubblin’ sound What tell tale deaf and the after life, And the Spartoi Udaeus take the slave’s mullet Wif his knife. And Hilarus be on his way ta the River Styx Far from any home he ever knew While all his mates be slew. Hilarus Wifout so much as a denari under his tongue What like his master, wifout coin, Charon cast Souls out as they be but dung. Hilarus not pass the Three Headed Dog And feel their hot tongues upon his cheek. Nor give account what he be but Crassus’ slave What as his master he be a cruel and vile knave. A this me wholly attest. So not likely be his fate what Persephone or Dis Place a kiss upon his mouth and such breaf Restore him ta this life. But me woe be deep for I doth glimpse, Lo among the carnage dear sweet Loquatia And Bodacia and the two cynics laid low. My dear, dear wife and Rome’s great diva, And Captius Hectorus, in the fray All receive a fatal blow. While Bilius writhe wif a mortal wound He be all a me love and friendship what survive. And I cradle his stove in skull As he choke up blood What soak me ragged mantle and cloak And such words spoke: “This isle portend me death for it be compost A Cyclop bones, monsters What feed on any meat well their own And wif such strength Chuck the leavin’s a hundred leagues. I know you Ictus. But if you believe not in omens, You believe not in me. For this be foretold a Cumae Sybil.” “Far be it from me ta call the words of a dyin’ bloke drivel, Special what one what preach the Dog. But your gash be not trivial and What be utile a your thought mind your survival.” At what Bilius but spout more prophecy, Between gouts a blood, What, though futile, he say he prefer, And conclude in me arms, As ta me those what choose the Sybil As certain dead upon arrival What comin’ inta the light, we call birf. And true, be this insula the bony leavin’s a Polyphemus? And the brothers Brontes, Steropes and Arges What Hesiod attest, be born a Gaia and Uranus? And Homer’ sons a Poseidon, What all these be ta want much meat Wif the force to litter a shoal leagues hence What I now stand ‘mongst the bloody consequence. All 50 a Hilarus retinue The Spartoi in an instant slew And scatterd Roman limbs What this be a supernatural Teuteburg. And now quiet, quiet but for the lop, lop, lop A the blood red sea. What a sudden eyes poke above the hull A the Roman scow in tow And certain a stout and much pocked man What I know be name a Scabiopilus What Volcatius Sedigitus heap enormous praise For this Scabiopilus much raise up The Palliata Comoedia, And ta the tabloids delight Be a tumultuous paramour a Bodacia. And held up at the shit bucket As many a work a Plautus gain ear What exploit the infamy a the nose. And not pose ashore among those What Hilarus at behest a Crassus come ta exile. And while The Spartoi gather the kittim And heap them upon a pyr Pilus weeps a his mistress and me wife What sear me heart and flush ta wrath, What I turn ta Ekhion and shout “Burn not these. These slaves ta Crassus’. Deny not the crabs What have nourished me Ta strip their flesh and leave their bones As clean as thee. There in Rome sits Crassus fully robed In the living mantle of life flesh upon bone. O! What joy it be ta alter that state.” “Then ta Rome!” Cries Ekhion And ten thousand Spartoi raise their arms, A roar a such din one sense Upon distant shores it raise alarums. What cynics heart be such Not avenge Loquatia’s murder. And what Neptune has fated this Spartoi force Ta challenge Crassus larder, And all the thieved wealf a Rome. “Fuck Rome then,” I hail Such in me hate for me regionem swell. “We, me comrades, need not drive them ta hell. Hades imbibe in all upon they settle and dwell. So rank be the Imperium Even what be the edge a the world The dogs a Cerberus scent the smell And strain at their chains.” Then “Whoah” said Pelorus, “It’s one thing ta call upon the gods. But false ta contrive their answer Ta suit thy rancor. Hot hate What has now o’er taken thy soul What raise anchor nay steady the keel that Your hand employ your sword right or left? What I suspect so little sword play a ya, Of me interrogative yo’r answer be bereft, But for the same what ya scratch yo’r pate, Cuff yo’r carrot or wipe yo’r ass. What talent be no matter ta the blade but Ta wipe your pate, cuff yo’r carrot or scratch your ass When all the killin’ be but ‘said’.” “What Peloros? Doth thou too much fear Rome? Upon thee be naught skin such as you risk but bone. And this your fate be but a connive a the gods, What whim Rome’s oracles float upon And in quick turn angle an offering. Be not thee seed a Ares? And so be but suited for war What have eternal life, be it in the raiment death.” “Well, if thy heat, Ictus, conduct us back ta Rome Whilst thou hide behind our leafless boughs? Be thou not a cynic what decry war?” Ictus: “Nay, what that war be not a dog’s concern But ta nosh upon the niblets a the fallen.” Peloros: “Be thee a cannibal thus? As thou imbibe crabs What feast upon Roman flesh.” Ictus: “What dogs be, be I. Peloros. What be supposed a the gods, Be the fancy a man. And be I man what thou be but ghoul.” What upon Scabiopilus interject. “Peloros, take not Ictus at his word For he out a anger be a reckless surmise And thus rattle thy cage What indeed thy ribs be so imagined As ta comport a dove or two. Our dear cynic be apprized a the Sinope What cheek he be ta warlike Alexander, ‘Stand out a me light and such’. A wound what by words lodge so deep a sting By shock be no attendant blow A king or king’s retinue arise.” Peloros: “What have we here? Plautus and Naevius under one blade?” Here a note appears in the margin “Patricio has stolen a suckling pig from the Priory and will receive forty lashes on St. Michaelmas.” The marginalia seems to bear no connection to the text. “I be Squire Scabiopilus as you be want a flesh.” Peloros: “Well, squire. Shall we ta Rome?” Scabiopilus: “Sir, much spur me ta Rome return As I doth prize goose flesh and figs. But thee, I think not. For thy comport Has none the ports and harbors What wine and meat make whole. Beginnin’ wif the teef and tongue One ta chew as you doth of some possess But to pleasure the other Of which you be bereft. Nor the belly what dalliance full Be most heaven sent. Nor the anus what gentle coax the feel a it’s linin’ What be as a liken a lictor fillin’ a ripe young bung. Vengeance prod Ictus. As me belly me. What be it a thee ta transverse the sea And fall upon the Romans.” Peloros: “Thou valor shaped by a chop or a goose liver Seem but numinous ta me. Ta starve, yes, as your kind do, A mob’ll stand a bear up in a pen if its meat. But do not these comforts feature in exile?” Scabiopilus: “Ictus joust wif Cicero what contest Be a doppel a Diogenes and Plato. And the Epicures their mean Be at the keen a the spur of a whip. We cynics be wifout sinecure. Sure the world see our shard a Rome be pure.” Ictus: “Certain. What transgress if it be not treason What Cicero done. What retire ta Thessalonika And its splendors be put forth before him. What I never power or splendor seek And thus be obscure and weak Be set upon this boneyard grim. Me couch a rocks What Cicero’s be a bed a down.” Peloros: “But doth not Antony have him slain? Ictus: “Why ‘Bones’. You be well informed. Yes, and slain right proper as be his behest. And his hands and head be scythed and tacked Ta the Rostrum a the Forum, A right pretty sight for all What not be buggered by his charm. His nog and donnies what it be a heathen wreath Not warm ta brood But cold a winter harvest as they be so eaved.” Ekhion: “But yo. Be we ta Rome? For many a trireme we need ta crew Wif you two fine fightin’ cynics in our retinue.” Ictus: “Go on, Ekhion. Mock me skills a war. But fancy some a the mugs What be generals a Roman Legions. And sense my wit, What like a Caesar I be a runty shit But I learn stratagem night and day In the streets and alleys Of a city so brutish As Astraeus conclude a dusk it not allay Great Jove contemplate Hisself or likes a you Spartoi proxy And make but a gory smear of it all, What our average citizen be but A race a petty, ignorant, graspin’ Icarae. And Ekhion, lest I be but ta howl at the moon. What this General Varus be but a Pantaloon What prize Arminius’s ass above his ear And 20,000 boys lay dead at Teutoburg Twice the gaggle a Spartoi what rally here. “ Osteos: “Sir Ictus, what on many shores Thy kind be known by kittim Which be not a name of a people Or what theys’ subjects think So much as what a race a people think a Rome What be the blind end of a ox, Their talks bein’ what Rome administer Its steam and stink ta the world. Why be we ta Rome What wif but bony stalks Be spared it’s wreak, the dowse a lilies What bear but blood upon the blossoms? Or what be Apicius’ tables ta us What hath no viscera ta partake a such fare Nor nerves ta feel or eyes ta see For it’s beyond sense we air our being As you err us as being kin ta your lusts. So what be it ta us, your race Whose desires are driven by wealf Where we Spartoi hang neither piffle or purse Nor brace a baculum . Ictus: Baculum! What the Semites say Be the source a Eve. Osteos: So little thy kitts know thy subjects’ patrimony Whevver it be a rod or rib what be at stake. What the Hebrew there be ‘ahat’ What convey ‘one of’ What you imply this Semite Adam possess many puds. Maybe the bloke be so What be a ballocks a hydra But not be a Semite bloke what possess such now; What would a long ago been paraded In your Circus ta be eaten by lion’s Labeled by your worthless oracles a bad omen or such For janglin’ a gaggle of Dandy Doolies Like they be a chain a keys ere his crotch. Ictus: Osteos, as thee be ignorant A the greatness a Rome What aqueducts water field and home And by grace a Cloacina flush our filth Away from us. And many roads for conquest and trade And dredge and foundation of ports be made. And triremes ta dock. What shopkeeps doth stock. Osteos: What schoolboy pride from likes a thee. Next be the cynic salute the Signum. So little us phantoms carry any a it. If Ekhion so commands it’s on ta Rome Ta lay waste our Dog Bite’s ancestral home. Doth thou vengeance over Loquatia flow so hot, More me satisfaction as I think not. Ekhion: “All to in our state stripped a flesh, Or not what hairy crust we never possess. ‘On ta Rome’ be we Ta unseat the godly founders A such a loose and carnal shuffle a Democritus As be this Roman citizenry.
End of Second Part.